Fire
by The Silver Trumpet
Summary: In those eyes, she could still see the fondness with which he once looked upon her, the delight that once alit them when he stroked her tawny feathers. He never had been evil. Neither had she. Hints of Steficent, beginnings of Maleval. One-shot.


Fire. Iron. Wings. Tower. Stefan. "It's over!" Her voice came almost without her consent. She had won. It _was_ over. Her hand dropped from his throat. She would never kill him. Not when his eyes, his frightened eyes, still belonged to her long lost friend. His eyes were his own, untouched by the insanity that ravaged the rest of him. In those eyes, she could still see the fondness with which he once looked upon her, the delight that once alit them when he stroked her tawny feathers. He never had been evil. Neither had she. And it was that foolish thought that let her turn her back.

Pain lashed against her. She whirled on him once again. He jumped at her. Then they were falling, spiraling, off the tower. He was burning her. Her wings snapped out. Burning, burning, burning. She couldn't let go. She needed to hold on. But there he was, slipping between her fingers, falling freely from her arms, reaching for her while she reached for him. She grabbed for his hand. The iron gauntlet hissed at her. The burn was just enough, just enough, for her grip to loosen. She couldn't hold on to him.

This was them, wasn't it? Them, from the very beginning, reaching hopelessly for each other, spiraling down to the darkness of inevitable death. His body curled into itself. Terror consumed his face. Her wings wouldn't work, wouldn't dive after him, wouldn't even _try_ to save him. She thought, for only a moment, for a split second in time, she could've sworn he began to mouth, "_I'm sorry_."

_Splat_. His broken body landed below her. The sound of the impact was somehow akin to the sound of mud hitting her cheek. She would never know. She would never know if he was sorry, if he even had the capacity to feel guilt anymore. She would never say goodbye, not to her childhood friend, not to her teenage lover, not to her mortal enemy. They had _won_, but she felt like she had lost a million wars over.

Her knees were weak, and she dropped to them in front of his body. She couldn't touch him, not even in death, not even as blood pooled behind his broken skull. Her fingers neared the armor for a mere moment, but they pulled back. They knew better, even if her heart didn't, even if her mind didn't.

"Mistress?" She didn't remember magic floating to Diaval, changing him, and she hadn't heard him approaching through the shattered glass. "Mistress, are you alright?"

Her body ached, but she was strong. She found her feet, and she whirled on him. He went stiff, almost cringing away, while she flung her arms about him. Her filthy wings wrapped around both of them. Arms around his body, wings encasing them, face pressed against his sooty neck. The rippling scar tissue pressed into her cheek. He shakily rested his hands against the small of her back. "It's over," she repeated to him as she had to her former friend, her former enemy, who now lay dead at their feet. Her voice was small. Wet eyelashes brushed against his neck. Her knees sagged, threatening to drop her, but he held her up.

His eyes were concerned and troubled, black, tunneling, safe, warm, passionate, devoted. She had to blink several times to look into those eyes, and she wondered how long she had tried to ignore the emotion there, how long she had forced herself to look away because what he felt for her was dangerous. "Are you hurt?" she finally managed. His face was covered in soot, his hair mussed in that way he hated, but though his clothes were singed, he looked to be in one piece.

He shook his head. "That was fun," he admitted with a broken smile. "Next time with less angry humans and chains, yes?" His eyes glowed hopefully at her—not hoping to be a dragon again, but hoping to fix her brokenness. She knew this.

"Absolutely," she promised. For the first time in a very long time, she cracked a small, honest smile. Diaval's body was warm against her. They swayed in a soft synchronization. This was them, wasn't it? Ignoring their feelings, trying to prove to themselves that love did not exist, while all along it was right in front of them. Her wounds were ripped open anew, but they didn't hurt as her loyal servant and closest friend cradled her next to him. Softly, she whispered the three words she vowed never to say again. "I love you."

He tightened his grip on her, not enough to hurt, but enough for her to feel. "I love you," he returned softly. His crown bumped hers, their noses touching.

"I didn't mean for him to fall."

"I know." He knew; he always knew. He had always known that she wasn't evil, that she had never been evil, but she had been hurt. And he had helped heal her over all this time. "I love you," he repeated. He was reminding her, now that he knew he could, now that she had opened the gates for him to be completely honest with her. She didn't want to close those gates ever again.

A single tear left her eye. In that tear, she buried her grief. In that tear, she awoke her happiness. Diaval's thumb caught it and wiped it away. "I love you," she replied. Ruby lips met his for a sweet, soft kiss. She melted into him. "Let's go home." And she knew, for the first time in nearly twenty years, it would really be _home_.


End file.
